Blood & Holy Orders
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Rowan Wilde has worked for Hellsing Agency for 6 months as an archivist and researcher. 6 months without sight of what, or should that be WHO, she has really come to study. Can she complete her task without getting herself killed or exposed?
1. Chapter 1

The antique grandfather clock marked the hour, subtle whirring mechanisms heralding deep, resounding chimes. Brass weight swinging inside the carefully-polished casing, the glass reflected golden oblongs of light from study lights. Only when the chimes reached twelve did Rowan look up, realising an hour's extra research had stretched into several. Groaning soundlessly, she wiggled a kink from her back. With cotton-gloved hands, she carefully closed the leather-bound book before her - the journals of a fourteenth century priest and sometime vampire hunter, all in Medieval Latin. Peeling off the gloves, designed to protect the delicate pages from skin oils, she glanced at the long-cold cup of tea at her elbow and grimaced. A line pad lay next to the journal, page after page filled with handwritten translations and notes.  
  
Half-heartedly attempting to scrub the Biro stains from her fingertips, she yawned softly. Blinking in the dim light, she gazed affectionately at the neatly regimented bookcases stretching from floor to ceiling. Crammed with meticulously preserved volumes, manuscripts and grimoires any antediluvian, academic or sorcerer would dearly love to study, the Hellsing Order's expansive library contained enough to keep her occupied for an entire career. The shelves, all serviced by wheeled ladders, held tomes from the world over. Merely the smell of the old parchment, the dusty dry ink, the creak of a book spine, made her happy.  
  
'If only this was just an academic exercise,' she thought, a touch sourly. 'I could lose myself in all these wonderful books. But six months down the line and all I've gained is access to the library and archives. Not so much as a glimpse of what I really need to study.'  
  
Earlier that evening, she had received a summons to Integra Wingates Hellsing's office. Her valet, bodyguard and former Hellsing assassin, Walter, had ushered her through with a smile and a nod. Dark hair swept back, a monocle fixed to his wrinkled eye, he appeared harmless. Rowan knew better, having happened upon him practising in the courtyard with his garrotte wires. Lady Integra, perched serenely behind her huge mahogany desk, had acknowledged her with a small tip of her chin.  
  
"Miss Wilde," she had greeted in her cool, clipped tones. "I have been reviewing your work for the Special Archive Projects. Most impressive."  
  
Rowan had dipped her head, accepting the praise without comment. Integra was known for not suffering unnecessary conversation. Tapping a long, cylindrical ash from her cigarillo, Integra had signed a document with a gold-nibbed fountain pen.  
  
"As from now, your probationary period is over. Only half our work is done by brute force, the rest lies with faultless research. I trust you need no reminder about the sanctity of the Holy Order and our mission."  
  
It was not a question. Light winking from her silver-rimmed glasses, Integra's neon blue eyes impressed the gravity of the trust she placed in her employees. Murmuring her assent, Rowan had collected her contract of permanent employment and turned to leave. As the door clicked to behind her, she had heard Integra call for a glass of cognac. The valet's throaty voice, muffled through the heavy timber, was mostly unintelligible, but one word had remained clear.  
  
"Alucard."  
  
Rowan broke her recollection with a slight shiver, smiling at her foolishness as she realised she had spoken aloud. Tucking a hank of her long jet hair behind her ear, she gathered up her notes.  
  
'I'd need more than that to summon Hellsing's number one, not-so-secret walking, talking weapon, she thought dryly. Like some pretty high level blood magick. The soldiers talk about him with itchy trigger fingers.'  
  
Recalling the footage she had seen of the Tower Of London incident, she shook her head slightly. She had been several dozen miles away at the time, and the psychic fallout had knocked her out of her chair.  
  
'I sometimes wonder if the Iscariot have the right idea - wipe them all out. You can't control something like him forever. Goddess help us if he gets off his lead and decides it's playtime. He'll play football with Integra's severed head.'  
  
All the fine hairs on the nape of Rowan's neck abruptly rose, prickling, streaking goose pimples down her arms. Pupils dilating, slate grey eyes wide against the darkness pooling between the study lamps, she turned a slow semi-circle. She was being watched. Instinctively, she drew her mind in, dampened her aura, third eye throwing out steel scales to shield from intrusion.  
  
"You're new."  
  
The voice was male, a cathedral organ baritone, appearing to emanate from the top of the bookshelf to Rowan's left. She stared up into the gloom, unable to see who, or where, the speaker stood.  
  
"Not really," she replied calmly.  
  
A soft rumble of laughter echoed from somewhere near the ceiling, then again to her right. Eyes flicking towards the sound, she caught a fleet shadow, merging with the darkness. Heart beginning to trip, but not yet certain who she addressed, she squared her shoulders.  
  
"Who is this?" she demanded, raising her voice slightly. "Come out where I can see you."  
  
Silence answered her. Seconds ticked past with the smallest hand of the grandfather clock, not so much as a creaking floorboard indicating a presence. Making a show of nonchalance, Rowan shrugged her narrow shoulders and took a step towards the library doors. Twin disks of reflected light flashed in the blackness between the nearest two bookcases, catching her attention.  
  
"I wonder why it is you can shield your thoughts from me," the same voice observed conversationally. "And just why did you call me?"  
  
Etiolated features pared by shadows, a man in a claret red velvet duster coat and brimmed hat stepped out. Ruby eyes half hidden by yellow-lensed glasses, he leaned against the end of the bookcase, dark hair falling over his brow. Taller than Rowan by almost a foot, he gazed down at her with mild amusement and casual menace. Clutching her books to her chest, almost as if to muffle her heartbeat, she quirked an eyebrow.  
  
"Call you?" she said frostily. "I don't even know who you are." 'Shit! I must've projected earlier. He heard me. It's Alucard in person. Don't bugger this up, Rowan, don't let him slip past your defences.'  
  
Alucard chuckled, pressing a white-gloved hand to his chest in feigned horror. A sliver of fang showed at his mouth, differentiated in shade from his skin only by a wet gleam. He had not fed recently, his pallor as complete and flawless as alabaster.  
  
"I think you do. Or your heart wouldn't be beating quite so quickly."  
  
He cocked his head and slipped his glasses further down his nose, a wing of untidily spiked hair falling away. He smiled sardonically as Rowan held his gaze unflinchingly, dancing crimson lights curving through his eyes.  
  
"Brave little librarian," he observed mockingly.  
  
Grey eyes narrowing, Rowan's chin came up defiantly, fingers tightening around her notepad and books.  
  
"Tired and overworked librarian," she corrected icily. "Without time or inclination to be used as a chew toy for Hellsing's pet vampire. Excuse me."  
  
Jaw tight, back straight, she stalked past him towards the exit doors, kitten heels clipping as she reached the marble tiled walkway. Every nerve in her body shrieking for her to turn around, to check where the vampire was, she gritted her teeth and continued. The sensitive skin at the soft juncture between her ear and jaw tingled, reminding her of the jugular pumping beneath.  
  
'Don't show your hand,' she told herself fiercely, feeling her palms itch. 'He's just testing you. He's not going to suck dry his master's newest star employee.'  
  
She was scant steps away from the massive brass-handled library doors, long hair tapping just above her waist as she walked, when her feet left the floor. Yelping as she collided with the nearest wall, books tumbling from her arms, she swallowed reflexively as a powerful gloved hand pincered her throat. Heels scraping ineffectually against the tiles, she fought to regain her breath.  
  
"Even the most domesticated animals occasionally bite." A finger touched the I.D badge pinned to her suit jacket. ".Miss Wilde."  
  
Alucard grinned broadly, seemingly highly entertained, displaying twin rows of ivory needles. Abruptly releasing his grip, slamming his open hand against the wall by her head, he leaned in. Choking, rubbing her bruised neck, Rowan heard the plaster crumbling beneath his palm. Warm incisor points grazed her ear.  
  
"Coward," she hissed venomously, voice a low croak.  
  
The vampire stopped dead, pulling back, eyebrows disappearing under his black fringe, hat brim dipping. Something approaching surprise briefly wiping the sarcasm from his pale features, he stared at her.  
  
"What?!"  
  
Moistening her dry mouth, Rowan clenched her fists and blazed up at him, consciously allowing her fury to build. Imprisoned, a red-clad arm blocking her route either side, she snarled.  
  
"You heard me! Is this how you get off? Throwing women half your size against walls, knowing they can't possibly fight back?" Her lips skinned back and she laughed into his face. "Alucard, monster killer extraordinaire! Bloody pathetic!"  
  
It seemed for a moment she had rendered him speechless, mouth pinched into a bloodless line, eyes wide behind the yellow lenses. Something namelessly destructive passed darkly over his expression. An incisor popped over his lower lip and he began to laugh uproariously, arms dropping as he clutched his sides. Cautiously, Rowan pulled her jarred spine away from the wall. Doubled over with mirth, the vampire's laughter rang from the vaulted ceiling. The peals died away as he straightened, slipping off his glasses to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. The tears left faint pink stains on the white gloves. He shook his head, silent humour quaking through his frame.  
  
"Goodnight, Miss Wilde," he said gravely.  
  
To her astonishment, he politely doffed his hat. Turning in a crimson swirl of coat tails, he melted into the ether, leaving her alone. Fingers unconsciously rising to her throat, searching for puncture marks she knew she was unlikely to find, Rowan gathered up her scattered books. Drawing in a long breath, surprised to find she was not shaking quite as badly as she expected, she left the library.  
  
'Teach me to complain I'd not seen him.'  
  
* 


	2. Chapter 2

The scent of burning reached her nose, the musty scent of charred cotton. Belatedly realising her cigarillo had burned down, Integra's pale brows dipped irritably and she ground out the stub. Pushing away the cut glass ashtray, she pulled off her gloves and undid the first two buttons of her severe charcoal grey suit. Rowan Wilde's personnel file lay on the oxblood leather desk blotter, complete with glossy passport sized ID photographs. An unusually solemn Rowan stared up at her from the photo booth snaps. Harsh backlighting reduced her to a bleached remnant with enormous eyes the colour of a winter sky.  
  
Established staff had complained that she was noisy as she worked, laughing, talking and even singing on occasion. For the staid old hands, this change in management style was unwelcome. Despite this Integra could not find fault with Wilde's work, which was innovative, with a thoroughness she prized in her research team. An Oxford University background, plus secondments to major academic and occult research establishments all over Europe had made her an acceptable choice when the former head archivist had retired with ill health.  
  
Leafing through the file, she paused at the personal details section, finger tracing down to the religious affiliation. It read 'Secular/Other'. Since the massacre at the hands of the Valentine brothers, Hellsing had been forced to recruit wherever it could. Staunch Protestantism in an increasingly secular society was a luxury she could no longer afford when selecting recruits. To sacrifice spiritual exclusivity bothered her greatly.  
  
'The Holy Orders, now performed by non-believers. The soldiers chant "For Queen and country, under God. Amen" but do any believe it anymore?'  
  
Flicking to the final page, scanning past the legal Data Protection and Official Secrets disclaimers, she lingered on the oath all Hellsing employees signed. Recalling how Wilde had lingered over signing, a momentary pause, but noticeable to Integra nonetheless, she sighed. A lot of the new recruits found the emphasis on Christian faith laughable. Wilde seemed to find it uncomfortable for some other reason.  
  
Picking up her glass of cognac, the second of the night, she sipped a small mouthful. The spirit slipped down her gullet, warming the pit of her stomach. Leaning her cheek against the crystal tumbler, feeling it cool against her skin, she glanced at her wristwatch. It was some considerable time past 1a.m. Leading the Hellsing Institute meant keeping nocturnal hours often as not.  
  
The cream plaster wall directly left of her desk began to shimmer, swirling like stirred milk. Unfazed, she swallowed a little more cognac and set the glass down.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Alucard stepped out of the wall, the moonlight filtering through the lead lit windows picking out purple squares on his coat. Casually, he sauntered across the expansive office and slung himself into the wingchair by the empty marble fireplace.  
  
"The cognac is becoming a habit," he remarked, lips curling.  
  
Integra ignored him, accustomed to the habitual mocking. Blonde hair silvered by the green baize-shaded desk lamp, she pursed her lips.  
  
"This from a seasoned drinker," she returned dryly.  
  
The vampire smirked and crossed his ankles, white gloved hands resting easily in his lap. He eyed the glass of cognac with passing interest, and then returned his attention to his master.  
  
"Your new librarian is entertaining."  
  
Without missing a beat, Integra closed the personnel file and stowed it in the desk drawer. Picking up her glass, she leaned back in her chair, angular features lost in shadow.  
  
"Don't terrorise the staff again, Alucard. The psychiatrist fees are better spent on weapons."  
  
Top lip curling with the merest hint of a sneer, he pulled off his hat and dropped it into his lap, running a hand through his mussed hair. Lips parting as if to speaker further, he paused, grinned indulgently and inclined his head.  
  
"As my master wishes."  
  
Integra's ice chip eyes narrowed suspiciously, but before she could order him to elaborate, he faded like an ink drawing splashed with water. Irked, she made a mental note to speak to Wilde. The soldiers were accustomed to Alucard's attitude, as they usually bore the brunt of his sarcasm and scare tactics. His baiting of academic staff had resulted in several resignations, accompanied by not inconsiderable hysterics. Reaching for her glass, a fresh cigarillo and a stack of mission reports, she dismissed the matter for another time. Outside the mansion, the full moon skirted low over the rooftops, pale gold against a amethyst blue sky.  
  
* 


	3. Chapter 3

*  
  
Closing the front door behind her, leaning into the black glossed wood, Rowan closed her eyes and drew a deep, cleansing breath. Alucard had unnerved her more than she first thought. She had not expected to find a cynical sense of humour in a vampire. Standing straight, she dropped her house keys and bulging handbag on the hall table. Shuffling off her shoes, she stood barefoot on the on the varnished boards. Feet at hip distance apart, she concentrated and grounded herself, sending streaking feelers of thought surging through into the earth below the foundations. Picking up a small, decorative green vial, she rubbed it between her hands like she was moulding clay. Popping the hinged lid, she dipped the index finger of her right hand into the neck. A sweet, pungent smell immediately perfumed the air. She slowly began to draw an invoking pentagram, starting from the upper left. Traceries of silver fey light emitted from her fingertip, suspended in midair.  
  
"My lady goddess, hear the cry of your priestess, your child! I ask your blessings and protection this night. As above, so below, and all in between that flows. Strengthen the ward I cast so none that mean me ill can pass. Empower it threefold by three. This is my will, so mote it be!"  
  
Catherine wheel bright, the pentagram blazed and spun, suddenly dissolving into a glittering mist that permeated into the structure of the narrow Victorian townhouse. Breathing slowly, Rowan tested the boundaries of the warding, pressing it with psychic fingers, prodding it like gelatine. It held firm, yielding softly to her touch, yet impenetrable.  
  
'It mightn't keep him out if he decides I really am a chew toy, but I'll certainly know if he tries to get in. The fact he can't read me like a remedial level book has piqued his interest.'  
  
At that moment, her mobile phone chirruped like a cricket in her handbag. Lowering her arms, she retrieved it, relieved when a familiar voice greeted her.  
  
"Hello you. How goes the good fight?" Warm, affectionate and implicitly teasing, with a strong Mancunian accent, the voice was more than welcome.  
  
Smiling, she sat on the bottom of the stairs, tucking her legs around. Shouldering off her jacket, she transferred the tiny phone into her other hand.  
  
"Hi, Corrin. Work is fine, thank you. though I did run into You-Know-Who earlier."  
  
There was a short pause on the other end of the line, interrupted by crackling interference. Massaging her toes, wiggling away a day confined in high heels, Rowan sighed thankfully.  
  
"You okay?" Concern had replaced the humour in his voice. "I got a fizz about an hour ago, which is why I rang. We've not seen you since Beltane, Rowan - we miss you in circle."  
  
Kneading the bridge of her nose, she quashed the lonely ache the pleading note in his voice caused in her chest.  
  
"I know. I miss you all too. But I've work to do here - you know that. I've got to be careful when I take my holidays. If they all fall around the sabbats, someone is bound to notice, probably one of my frighteningly clever staff. If Lady Hellsing gets a whiff of anything Pagan, she'll fire my arse in a heartbeat and ruin any chance I have of finishing this thing off. And yes, I'm fine, O dutiful High Priest."  
  
A dismissive snort echoed through the small speaker at her veiled hint to drop the subject. Turning her wrist, Rowan peered at her silver wristwatch and groaned.  
  
"Listen, Corrin, it's gone one thirty. I have to be up for work tomorrow - there's a raid planned on a monastery in Cornwall and the military bods want somebody who can translate Dark Age magickal sigils. They think the place is spell-rigged. Goddess knows how a load of chipped freaks managed that, but they did. I need to brush up on local variants before I go in."  
  
Corrin huffed disgustedly, "Well, just don't go getting horribly maimed or anything, our kid. All those guns and ghouls. I must be getting old, 'cos this stuff rattles me."  
  
Laughing softly, knowing nothing short of an all-out global disaster frightened the stoic, iron-haired priest, Rowan picked up her shoes.  
  
"I believe you, thousands wouldn't," she smiled. "Tell the others I said 'hi', okay?"  
  
She could almost feel his answering grin, perpetually bewhiskered and somewhat rumpled. He chuckled quietly.  
  
"Will do. Oh, before I go, the Council will want a report soon. Certain people are getting uppity. I think you can guess who. Things are set to move up a notch in the next few years, and we can't have Alucard as a potential fly in the ointment. I don't think old man Hellsing knew the half of it when he managed to seal-bind him. Anyway, I'll leave you to it. Blessed be."  
  
Echoing the parting blessing, Rowan thumbed off her phone. She could not help but agree. Well meaning as Hellsing Institute was, Integra's blind devotion to her search-and-destroy mission could jeopardise everything. Her single-mindedness only allowed her to see a small portion of the larger picture. Abruptly tired, head crammed with conflicting thoughts, Rowan trudged wearily upstairs to bed.  
  
* 


End file.
